Houses of Cards (And Smiles of Gold)
by turtledoves
Summary: The water-stained, sand-sprinkled porch seems the least likely place for a story to start, but there's no place like home, so this is grand enough. /Simple, shared moments between Finnick and Annie. For Estoma.


**a/n [**_I went all out with the formatting on this one. Uses prompt 'architecture' from Caesar's Palace. Also written for Iris' fluff contest also on c/p. And for GGE for October. But most importantly, for Estoma on her birthday(!)_**]**

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"It's cold, Ann."

"I'll be fine."

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**A**fter March, when the seasons changed yet again (like they always do), a girl steps outside, one foot in front of the other, and attempts to count the stars. The night is warm, a pleasant change, and against the soft breeze, it's not hard to see why the girl suddenly feels invincible. Anyone would when outlined by moonlight. And her smile, well, it's brighter than the gold reflected in the sea.

**N**ot wanting the night to end and not ready to surrender to sleep, she stays, leaning against the wooden railing, hair floating over her shoulders. The water-stained, sand-sprinkled porch with that one nail by the door that never got pounded in all the way seems the least likely place for a story to start, and an even worse place for star gazing, but there's no place like home (and back porches), so this is grand enough.

**N**ever the less, the setting (as settings often do) must change. And as the air around her grows more frigid as time passes, remembering the cold nights and foggy breath and stormy seas of months past, goose bumps rise and so does the urge that it's about time to head back inside. The time for wishing on stars has come and gone, so following the warm light from within, she pads back into the house.

**I**nside, the fire flickers, tossing heat from side to side. Something's baking in the kitchen—she thinks she remembers him mentioning cookies, but she's not sure—but the baker is tucked out of sight, standing on a stool, and reaching for something on top of the bookshelf. Instead of grabbing what he must've intended to, something crashes to the floor, and she jumps before peering around to see what it was. (It was a dictionary drowning in dust.)

**E**ars ringing from the sound, the girl looks back up to find him grinning above her, leaning dangerously back on the stool, and a pack of cards in his hands. The top was pulled open, so when he waved it a bit to clear the dust, cards spilled out (as the stool tilted too far back), and desperate to catch them, he ended up sprawled on the floor, his left foot still resting innocently on the overturn stool. She laughed before she could stop herself.

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"For the record, I was doing fine until you showed up."

"Would you like me to leave then?"

"No."

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**C**ards could be a simple end to a long day or an aggressive battle with no apparent end (and there was no in between.) On this night, with the curtains swaying in front of the forgotten window, it seemed to be the latter. Eyebrows were furrowed, eyes were narrowed, and lips were pursed. For once, there were no stolen glances or soft touches. This was war.

**R**estless hands twiddled with the cards in her hand as she ordered them by number then suit then mixed them up again. He was stiller, almost a statue, and in the silence (only filled by flipping cards and heartbeats), he seemed otherworldly. The spell was broken when he lost once more to her, and she leaned back, laughing and cheering, while he groaned.

**E**asily, the night passed by, and with each growing hour, the players grew drearier, kept only awake by the excess sugar in the slightly burnt (from almost being left in the oven) cookies. It seemed to him that she'd never stop joking about how he'd almost burned the house down thrice now—the first two times weren't entirely his fault though. Probably.

**S**leep came over her sooner she'd thought. He was in the middle of building his house of cards, telling stories of each card person and each card activity, when her head drooped forward onto his shoulder, causing his hand to slip and the house to fall down in one splattered mess as if it'd never existed at all. With a small sigh, he packed up the cards (leaving the deck on the floor—an accident for another day) and carried her to bed.

**T**ruthfully, there was a kindness to the end of the day when everything slowed down and lids closed and houses loomed taller, more protective. There was no comparison to the contentment of closing his eyes, his arms securely around her waist, forehead resting on hers, as the dark (gently) swarmed in.

**A** nest of stars cocooned the setting (waiting to grow and burst), the air growing colder still, and the story circles back to the start where wishing and smiles were spread over water, lifted over cityscapes, and thrown down mountainsides. When morning lifted, carrying along the sun, they were long gone, soaring the black tides of the universe.

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"Are you awake?"

"Mm."

"Finn?"

"Mm?"

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**F**irst thing of the day was breakfast. (Showering and clean clothes seemed like lesser evils when words couldn't be heard over growling stomachs.) She flipped the pancakes while he set the table—plates, check; forks, check; napkins, check; butter, check; syrup… hm. It was always like this. An easy routine they wouldn't trade for the world.

**I**dle birds hung by the windows as the fog lifted away. Their time to sing and shout and dance would be later when the sun was high and they had the whole world under their wingtips. She watched them, curious, as he cleaned, cheerful. He found he couldn't stop looking over at her and smiling, the corners of his lips turning up slowly until they couldn't stretch any further. (A real, true, bright smile.)

**N**early tripping over the card deck, she spun around with a glare as he dried his hands. It was her turn to build a house, and she claimed it would be the strongest ever (not even conquered by wind or tired heads) so of course he tried his hardest to knock it down. As competitive as they were, not even the moon was surprised when they raced outside to start a sand castle contest.

**N**ecessary shells and twigs were chased around and brought to and fro; water was fetched and dumped over the fragile dry sand attempting to be formed. The two constantly glanced over at one another's sculpture, but no words were ever spoken (even though they were sitting almost side by side.) It was no surprise when she won, earning glory and the prize of a seaweed flag, and even less of a shock that he let her. He'd do anything for that girl.

**I**nside, again (do you see the patterns, yet), they huddled together on the couch, fireplace out this time, and the second her head hit his chest, they starting talking. They covered topics like everything and nothing, and while the birds started up their midday songs and the sun proudly shone above the whole town, they of nothing but each other.

**C**razy, isn't it, how stories are told? He kissed her nose, a loose board fell off a stand in the market, she picked up a book, and the wind formed bigger waves. By the time a storm was upon them, the first of the new spring, completely as unexpected as the beginning of their love, meaningless hours had passed by, leading up to the next refrain, the next setting. (Reading is kind of like being tossed under waves.)

**K**ind blankets brought warmth while soft words brought comfort. He made tea in the kitchen (and tried his very best not to burn down the house) while she sat on the counter, watching him, and thinking of pleasant things to force the bad things away. The rumbling of clouds was too similar to the rumbling of earth.

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"Here, Annie."

"Thank you."

"Is there anything else you need?"

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**O**verly warm hugs seem to always last too short. He'd stay in her arms forever if he could. She'd like to kiss him until she couldn't breathe. And underneath their blanket, the empty cup of tea pushed aside, the storm (now reduced to soft rain) pounding softly on their door, they both had wishes come true, at least partly, until it got too warm again and they struggled to break out of the nest they'd formed.

**D**ays progressed back into nights where they stayed, together, uncaring to the passing of time. Somewhere, clouds parted, but the sun was too late to poke through (and seeing the moon appear just didn't have the same poetic effect.) Hands brought out the leftover cookies, and hands lifted up the cards once again. This time, it was the serene game with stolen kisses in between moves.

**A** two of hearts won the last game (because what would a story be without metaphors) and she took to balancing the rest of the cards on his knee, and he took to tricking the pile into falling. The result was laughter and friendly shoves and yet another pile of cards to be left for another time.

**I**nstantly jumping up at the claim of a race, her fatigue faded as he started running up the stairs (an unfair head start) and she sprinted after him, almost flying in the dim light that was sparkling with the energy in the house, alive. They collapsed on their bed, smiles bursting, only letting the moment fade when the reminder of night fell over them.

**R**esting her head on his chest, right where it belonged, she let her breaths slow and eyes close. She counted his heartbeats, and he counted the moments, and in the seconds before they fell completely into the depths of sleep, they smiled (one after the other like two halves of a whole), and that's where the lights will fade and the credits will roll.

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"I love you."

"I love you, too."


End file.
